Inside a Criminal Mind
by People Person I'm Not
Summary: Inside the head of an UNSUB.


I watch as the water swirls down the drain, tinged red, the red that covers my hands as if these hands attached to my body belong in truth to a painter, or maybe a butcher. I guess in a way I am both of those: a butcher and an artist because of that. That's what they believe, anyway. The label really depends on who is doing the labeling. People in the outside world would call me a monster.

What I call myself, though—that's harder. I do what I do because I have to, I have no choice, they'll kill me if I don't. They press their guns to me from the inside and threaten to make my whole being explode if I don't do what I want, if I don't shoot and cut that next person in the line of people they give me.

I try to call myself a victim. I am just as much a victim, every bit, in every way, as those poor people they make me kill—I do it against my will. Do it or you're going to end up like those people you so pity.

_Do it or we're going to tear you apart from the inside out. We'll kill you and feast on your body and you will never live on, never go to whatever next life you believe in, because we know you do. Do it for us._

Stop, stop, shut up, _stop_. Focus on the red swirls, the pretty coloring in the diamond water, focus on that until they…stop.

They go away, bury themselves again, and now I am once more myself. My mind is again my own, my hands are clean—now I hide. I run to my room and bury my face in the pillow that smells of cigarette smoke (they make me smoke…I would never…they take my nevers and make they always) and pull the threadbare blanket tight around me—it is like being in a grave, safe and secure where no one can get to me ever—ever—and they are gone.

If the people, the official ones, the ones I see on the news they force to watch, if those people find me, save me, will I be rescued from them as well? Will they be taken out of me, will I be kept safe?

I pick up the phone—I need to at least try—if I don't, what does that make me? Just another failure? The kind of failure that led me to invite them in, the kind of failure that made me lose control in the first place?

Shh. Silence my racing mind, enough to make this call. I pick up the phone, but they start screaming and waving their weapons and I fell the thud, thud where they hit me so I throw the phone across the room, hear the crack when it hits the wall, know I broke it, but I don't care.

_Turn on the television_.

They are here—they tell me what to do constantly, but I don't dare resist—even if whatever it is they force me to do makes me more and more miserable and desperate.

I creep out to the living room and hit the power button on the remote. The news flickers on, and I see her. I recognize her. I was the one who put her in the position to be on the news, the one who shot her through the heart and tore up her pretty face and—god, look what they made me do. Don't blame me—don't shoot the messenger. That's all I am, really, the carrier for their deadly message. They make me watch the news, see what I did, and laugh when I hurt because of it. They enjoy my pain.

The television flashes up other pictures, too—the others I was forced to do the same to. They laugh gleefully, and look, _look_, damn you, look. Don't laugh—don't undermine human dignity and rights. Don't make me into a monster. I can't be a monster—I can't be the one to give children nightmares should they hear about me and be the one people tell horror stories about—that's not me. I'm good, I'm nice—this isn't me. What is wrong—I don't understand. They need to go, they need out—help me, _help me_. This can't be right! What happened? They did this to me—it was their fault. Them.

I curl into myself and start sobbing. They do this to me over and over and over, ceaselessly, tear me into pieces, tear me away from myself, and I don't want this anymore. I can't have this anymore, it will destroy me. I am helpless to do anything against them—they'll kill me. But how long until I am rescued, until this all ends? Whenever their attention slips I try to leave clues, clues so that I can be found. They threaten and hurt me—I bear the scars. They can take over my body, that's how they manage it, the hurting me, but they find it so much more fun to watch while I do their work under my own power—although I rebel when I can.

This time I managed to leave my address, written, then torn up, the scraps scattered across the scene, small enough pieces so that they wouldn't notice, I hope, but big enough that the right people will. They need to find it, piece it together, and come rescue me before things get worse. I left it there ages ago—it has to have been found it by now.

How much longer? How much longer can I wait? How much longer before they tear me up for real?

I give up, but they take over my hands, my arms, my feet, my whole being. They force me up, force me to live again. They walk to the closet, the closet where I hide the gun and knife, because I can't usually bear to look at them and remember what I did. They take out the gun. I glance longingly at the knife—can I cut them out of me?—but they grab the bullets and slam the door before I can act.

They methodically clean and load the gun, and my heart pounds. Do they know what I did? Are the officials on their way? Please, God, let them be on their way.

I hear sirens—no, the sound is in my head—what is happening? Is it real or not? It recedes—I either imagined it or it was not for me.

Then the banging starts. It is on my door—has to be, with a noise like that—has to be _real_. The people shout for me to open the door, but they don't let me. I am frozen to the spot, gun loaded and held firmly in my hands.

The door is kicked in, and they bring the gun up. The feds—they have to be; their vests say FBI—all point their guns at me, and I fight them, but it is no good. They control my hands, pull the trigger, hit one man in the chest. I try and scream, but I'm still paralyzed. Another man fires back—hits me—hits them. I fall.

I hurt—everything burns—the fire is like nothing I have ever felt—but—but…they've stopped.

They've stopped. They're gone, killed by the gunshot. I'm free, for the first time in ages.

I take as deep a breath as I can manage. "You…you saved me," I mutter to the agents who lean over me, checking my pulse and my breathing, checking to see if I'm alive. They glance at each other, than fade. Darker, darker, darker…nothing.


End file.
